


Starry Sky

by WhiteNerine



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 13:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteNerine/pseuds/WhiteNerine
Summary: Dandelion's memories of his journey with the hansa.





	Starry Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I'll appreciate pointing out the mistakes as English isn't my native language. It was checked a few times but it's worth a mention.

A little room was almost completely dark. The only source of light was a candle standing on a desk, which illuminated the room really poorly, so the man poring over papers was in the penumbra. His fair hair was reflecting the flame, becoming somehow goldish itself. A woman who entered the room smiled with amusement, seeing this, and approached the desk gracefully.  
“Master Dandelion, right?” she asked. The poet turned his head, scared a bit.  
“Indeed. And you...” he started and gazed at her attentively. She had long, canary hair and sky blue eyes and was in an adorned dress. But what gave the game away was her voice, beautiful and melodious, albeit vague. “Must be Priscilla, if I’m not mistaken.”  
She giggled and took a step towards the desk.  
“Exactly. I wanted to wish you good luck before the contest, because I assure you, you’ll need it.”  
Dandelion chuckled.  
“Most appreciated, my dear,” he said, furling the papers carelessly.  
Priscilla took one of them nonchalantly and looked at it. The poet didn’t mind for as long as he didn’t notice which piece of paper she had taken.  
“You shouldn’t look at this one,” he said with artificial amusement. His voice was trembling. “I consider it my worst ballad which shouldn’t actually be here.  
Priscilla snorted.  
“I hope so, because, I have to admit I expected more after the famous master Dandelion. A worthy challenger at least. But let’s talk after the contest. We both have to practice after all. Although I think one of us has more to improve on,” she added with a significant tone.  
Dandelion laughed constrainedly.  
“I wish you good luck as well, my dear Callonetta,” he said, making Priscilla giggle.  
“Well, at least you’re right as amorous as you’re said to be,” she said merrily and left.  
Dandelion didn’t even think for a while how she got to know which room was his and why she decided to show up out of nowhere. As soon as she left, the poet took a piece of paper she had grabbed and looked at it.

_I promise thee we'll see this starry sky once more_   
_Sitting by the fire, watching sparks that soar_   
_And once more we will quarrel like we used to do_   
_In lieu of pouring blood, we'll be pouring booze_

_I wish, like the old days, we'd meet there anew_   
_Making sure this time we’ll never say adieu_   
_Though we sure deserve a rest after all the pain_   
_Without a doubt I'd die to venture out again_

_As time keeps passing by I’m less and less carefree_   
_Because, my dear friends, I deeply yearn for thee_   
_But it is all no use which now I clearly see_   
_Since all of thou art there, awaiting but for me_

He hated this ballad. He wanted to hate it for being so poor, so obvious. Because it was. But the reasoning behind was much smoother. It brought way too many memories.  
It reminded him of the day when Geralt got a contract for some monster, which Dandelion had certainly forgotten ages ago. But whatever it was, the witcher chose to go for it during their journey, because it seemed to be absolutely banal. Just a way to earn some extra money while on the trail when there was a spare moment. Because it was supposed to take no more than that. And once again, Dandelion had no idea what made the contract not all so banal.  
Luckily, the poet was wandering around, searching for some inspiration, when he bumped into Geralt, hurt and unconscious. On his first impulse, he went for Regis. When they got back to the witcher, the vampire said he didn’t expect him to be that bad, so he left to get more herbs which he was lacking.  
Dandelion, obviously, panicked. He started being afraid about exactly everything, starting with Regis coming too late, ending with almost certainty that what Geralt had fought will be back soon. The best way to get rid of panic, of course, is to play lute. So Dandelion started playing. Partly to add himself some courage, partly to keep the witcher alive. Despite knowing it would not work that way, he wanted to do anything. But there was nothing he could.  
“Fuck,” he heard suddenly and turned away with relief.  
His friend was awake after all. He stopped playing and said with delight:  
“Geralt! Everything alright?”  
The witcher groaned with pain and asked:  
“Does it look like it?”  
Dandelion clucked his tongue with concern but beamed. It couldn’t have been any worse by now.  
“I’ll sing you something! Would you rather hear “The Stars Above the Path” or…  
“For fuck’s sake, Dandelion,” he interrupted him growlingly. “Call Regis instead of talking.”  
“I already did,” said the poet proudly. “He needed some herbs so he went back to the camp. But he’ll be here shortly. But until then… oh, maybe “Ettariel the Beautiful”?  
The witcher sighed with tiredness and laid his head on the ground.  
“Save it, Dandelion,” he said.  
The poet bridled but put his lute back. Geralt looked at him then, noticing grudge on his face.  
“The Blue Pearl?” he murmured after a while.  
Dandelion suddenly brightened up and took his instrument, playing the first notes of the ballad.

It reminded him of the evening when Angoûleme brought a bottle of cherry spirit cordial. A really excellent one. Even though it was quite hard to be checked because the girl didn’t want to share with anyone. She was drinking delightfully, tasting every sip for as long as it was possible.  
Naturally, this provocation wasn’t really successful. On anyone but Dandelion who almost instantly sat next to her, as if unaware, and asked:  
“Wouldn’t you share with a friend?”  
The girl laughed happily, glad that her plan was effective after all.  
“No, I wouldn’t. I stole it, I drink it.”  
“Angoûleme, you know you shouldn’t steal only to brag about the alcohol no matter how good it is?” asked Regis, looking sideways at her.  
“I shouldn’t do many things,” she said insolently. “It fucking includes swearing. And fighting. And sitting here with you and risking my life for some girl I don’t even know.”  
Everyone went quiet. Everything suddenly became way more serious. No one looked at anyone, avoiding eye contact at all. Expect for Dandelion certainly, who asked after a short while:  
“So what about this cordial?”  
Milva and Cahir snorted with amusement and Angoûleme grinned.  
“Right, right. Have it your way. But play us something. The bawdier, the better, because you can fucking cut the tension with a knife here. Maybe “Maids from Vicovaro”, with the thought of the Nilfgaardian.  
“I’m not…” Cahir started and everyone, including Geralt, burst into laugh.

It reminded him of the night, when Dandelion sat on the log next to Milva. What the poet recalled vividly was her relishing fresh bread and persistently refusing any booze.  
“Milva, you look so beautiful tonight,” said Dandelion amorously, looking at her gingerly.  
Like never before he’d noticed her shapely, deft body, charm given by her short hair and depth in her insane eyes. He’d seen her feminine figure and natural grace, learnt under dryads’ care.  
“And you stink, Dandelion,” she said with disgust. “You’ve had too much alcohol.”  
Having said that, she gazed back at the fire, crossing legs. The poet laughed warmly and glanced at her.  
“I’ve drunk no more than half a bottle,” he said and when Milva looked at him with disbelief, he giggled. “Well, maybe a full one. But I assure you that I’m fully sober. And I just realised that your skin reflects the fire’s glamor astonishingly. That you, as simple as it is, look astonishing, my dear.”  
The woman snorted and looked up straight into the starry sky.  
“You could shut up once in a while, Dandelion.”  
“But it is all true. And your eyes, Milva. They always remind me of inextinguishable sparks.”  
The woman shook delicately. The poet gazed at her and murmured something inquiringly.  
“He also said it, Dandelion,” she started with her voice shaky. “The elf I slept with. He also compared my eyes to sparks. He also said I looked beautiful,” she kept speaking faster and faster, less and less sure. “He also…”  
“Milva,” said the poet, and she immediately stopped talking. Her eyes were a little glazed, but neither did she cry nor wept. “I’m sorry. You were right, I shouldn’t have gone overboard with this alcohol. I didn’t know that… well, I just didn’t think a lot.”  
The woman sighed, still looking at the sky. The poet took his lute and started playing the melody of “The Stars Above The Path”. He didn’t sing, so Milva didn’t understand. How could she? She simply snorted with amusement and said:  
“It is probably unusual for you, apologising to a woman, isn’t it?” Before the poet managed to say a word, she added “Thanks, Dandelion. Most appreciated.”

It reminded him of the morning, when the poet woke up unusually early. The sun was raising shyly, covering all the surroundings with a golden shine. Everyone was still asleep. Dandelion unconsciously lifted up a little and looked over his companions. And with certain apprehension he noticed there was someone missing.  
He wiped his eyes and looked more attentively. Regis wasn’t there. Anxious about him, he stood up quickly, getting rid of his fatigue all at once. Despite that, he decided not to wake the others up. He was probably hoping it was nothing important. The barber might have wanted to take a walk. Geralt opened his eyes, though, and looked at Dandelion. Having not noticed anything troubling, he fell asleep again.  
In the meanwhile the poet moved ahead, badly suffering from his lack of the witcher’s tracking skills. He looked up, highly doubtful about his plan. After a while of contemplation, he decided to enter the hut they were passing by. After all, the previous day Regis had met there a herbalist selling mandrake. Suddenly Dandelion brightened up, inspired by a new idea. Regis must have wanted to buy some herbs to make his moonshine.  
The poet’s pace became much brisker as he was going towards the hut which was actually very close to their camp. He didn’t expect a single bad event until he heard a shrill. He suddenly sped up his pace and burst into the hut. At the first glimpse he didn’t notice anything frightening – only Regis and the herbalist, with the latter being absolutely terrified. Upon hearing such a loud scream, Dandelion was surprised – he expected at least a ghoul or an armed bandit. What actually made his entry even more incomprehensible. He wouldn’t have helped a bit after all. But he was somehow worried about Regis. He didn’t even take into consideration that a barber alone would have performed much better.  
“Save yourself, man!” he heard a fearful voice belonging to the herbalist.  
And that was when he put it all together. There was no ghoul in the hut. Oh no, there was a monster far more dangerous. A vampire, and not just a usual one. It was a higher vampire from whom the herbalist tried to protect, using some garlic, held in his shaking hand. The barber sighed dauntingly and turned back, even though he didn’t have to. He could sense Dandelion’s smell, no matter how scary it sounded, and the poet knew it well.  
“Dandelion,” he said almost warmly, but still so ice cold for his usual self that the poet shuddered.  
“Regis,” he answered bluntly with his heart pounding like a hammer.  
He wouldn’t have been afraid of him in any other circumstances. All in all, he trusted him so much he could have entrusted him with his life. And yet the herbalist was so afraid that Dandelion couldn’t stop all the worst thoughts flowing in his mind. Because how else could this man get to know Regis’s identity if not by the vampire attacking him?  
“Let’s go. Everyone will be awake soon,” said the poet, overpowering his fear.  
“Man, he’s a…!” started the herbalist with a shaking voice. Regis turned back his head onto him for a while and the villager stopped talking all at once.  
“You’re right, Dandelion. Let’s leave before this mortal starts smelling too tasty.”  
The poet glanced at the man they had left behind who was now looking with dread at both of them, apparently not knowing who of them should have been feared more. And maybe Dandelion would have found it funny if it wasn’t for Regis’s words which really did scare him. They left the hut, observed carefully by the villager. As soon as they did, before the poet even managed to ask, vampire said:  
“He noticed I lacked a shadow. And considered it highly suspicious. I’d say so highly suspicious that he even took out some garlic to be protected.”  
There was something else to his voice right then. It wasn’t as cold as a while ago. There was more pain to it, which Dandelion heard clearly.  
“You are no monster, Regis,” he said surely, despite his heart was still beating anxiously.  
“I am and it is beyond any doubt,” he said with stoic calm. “I appear as a monster in your tomes and so I’m seen by the herbalist, by me, by Geralt and by you. Believe me, I can feel your fear. And you feared me, Dandelion. Feared as hell.”  
“I feared indeed,” he confirmed. “For you as well.”  
Regis looked at him with an enigmatic gaze.  
“I… did you really?” he asked being uncertain for once during their acquaintance. “I’m glad to hear that. Even though there was no reason to feel so.”  
“No, there wasn’t,” said Dandelion, taking his lute out. Regis smiled with amusement. He must have felt that the poet’s heart was back to normal as he started playing the first notes of “Winter”.

It reminded him of the afternoon when Geralt got into a fierce debate with Regis about vampires’ habits while Milva and Angoûleme rode several dozen foots ahead of the rest of their companions, absolutely not letting anyone get closer of the reasons known only for them. Dandelion was riding next to Cahir, making up lyrics of his latest ballad, which had been circling his head for a few days now. In the meantime the knight was looking ahead almost relentlessly. Almost, because he kept glimpsing at the poet, who noticed it right away. He even sighed once, but didn’t say a word eventually.  
“Is something troubling you?” asked Dandelion at last, making Cahir smile.  
“Well, yes, indeed,” started the knight doubtfully. “You see, there is something I wanted to ask you about… Falling in love it is, to be precise. Because you have fallen in love, even more than once, right, Dandelion?”  
“I have,” said the poet, slightly amused. “And now, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, would you be so kind and make it to the point?”  
The knight sighed.  
“You see, I’ve fallen in love, I’m afraid. Or actually, I’m not sure about it. And I wouldn’t like to risk…”  
Dandelion burst into laugh and before he managed to say a thing, Cahir bridled.  
“You don’t risk while falling in love,” explained the poet. “You have to do everything in your power to do it, because only when you do, you can feel it was worth it. Because it always is.”  
“Aren’t you that person many lords wish had been hanged for sleeping with their women?” asked Cahir uncertainly.  
“Indeed, I am.” Dandelion was more and more amused with every sentence of the conversation. “And that’s how I know I’ve never risked. At least emotionally and that’s what matters most.”  
Cahir murmured something with approval.  
“And how do I know if this is the person I’m in love with?”  
“You do, Cahir. I can hear it in your every word. You are just damn overthinking it. But if it is Milva,” he started in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’d be somehow careful with…”  
“Ciri,” the knight interrupted him. The poet looked at him surprised. “Yes, Ciri. And you’re right, Dandelion. I do know it. Even though I feel I won’t see her ever again.”  
“You’re dramatizing,” said the poet gaily. “We’re going directly to get her. And we can’t fail with such a company.” Cahir smiled and Dandelion added “Even though I’m afraid Ciri isn’t fond of Nilfgaardians.”  
“I’m no Nilfgaardian,” said the knight, bridled again, still smiling. The poet grinned as he started humming “Elusive”. He noticed a quick glimpse Cahir gave him, full of understanding. They exchanged smiles when the knight accompanied Dandelion singing in a low voice.

Dandelion looked at the piece of paper once again and scrunched it up. He tried to sing the ballad. It was written for ages now, just like its music. Despite that it wasn’t performed even once.  
It was bad after all.  
His voice cracked after the first verse when the script was sprinkled by countless tears.


End file.
